


Pet.

by spitbox



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Angel Corruption, Corruption, I just wanted to post this somewhere, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Sex, a very short drabble, is this even a drabble? eh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29789754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spitbox/pseuds/spitbox
Summary: you will know nothing of my intentions. i must keep you ignorant & filled with my affections.
Relationships: Papa Emeritus III/Original Character(s), Papa Emeritus III/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 1





	Pet.

the soft warmth of skin upon skin is soothing to the mind of such terzo emeritus. especially that of angel skin; baby like & usually pure of marks, less lufian is different than that. skin scarred by bite marks & scratches upon scratches. not forget the identical, deep lines upon his shoulder blades where fluttering wings once sat. pink marks he loves to trail his fingers along as he hold him, & press his thumbs into in the heat of the moment when the door is locked & their bodies are entwined together as one & with the dark one below. a way to remind him of what he is, or was.

he breathes like that of a fawn. calm & soothed, like he is being craddled by his mother. but alas is in the arms of the neighboring beast. blonde curls that rest on a sweet face of freckles & pink lips. lashes dark, & brows only a hint brown. he is perfection on silk purple sheets. sheets that will hold the spirit of his lasting innocence ‘till he is ridden of them.  
he is what men crave, & what renaissance paintings mused from. a darling boy of gold; chubby bodied with a lamb in his arms. crying sprinkled tears on blushing cheeks as god watches in pleasure of what he has done. 

& what has he done to deserve it? to deserve a boy of childlike wonder in his bed & arms. to kiss & feed sweet chocolate strawberries to on summer days while he sits in the garden beneath the old oak tree where he once spent a night under away from his father. upon a pink & white blanket sewed just for them, as he pours sweet juice into a champagne glass. ‘it is fancy, we are fancy!’ he says before sipping with small giggles. my sweetheart, oh how i wish i could have had you in my youth.  
he is nothing he should even be able to touch. his tainted palms shall not rest upon what he can destroy— yet he wants it, in a sick way. to gift the boy with corruption the only way terzo can. fuck him like a corner whore, bless him in blood beneath lucifers figure, & teach him how to behave the way he should.  
there is no one but me for you. i am your god. your savior. you pray to me, & you will believe it. you will be damned to hell to be my pet upon my throned lap. dressed in skimpy attire that only i may rip from your precious skin & take what is mine. i am the one who prays on weak, & you are my injured child i will keep sick. dependent on me to nurse you to health. you will know nothing of my intentions. i must keep you ignorant & filled with my affections. 

“papa?” 

a flicker of dual orbs up into golden ones.  
“yes, dear?” 

“i asked you what kind of tea you would like.” 

he is always so sweet. making some sort of drink or meal for him. dressed in a patchworked, long skirt & white top that will soon be tossed to the office floor in an hours time for his body to be placed onto his lap. cigarette between thin lips as the angel moves inexperienced on thick thighs; trying everything he can to pleasure him. as if he were frightened if he didn’t he would be kicked to the curb. he has already learned so much, & they have not even started.

“chamomile, grazie.”


End file.
